Chapter 3 The Prenup

Ciara's POV

Fake vows, real consequences.

If someone had told me last month that I'd be sitting across from Lysander Eryx-CEO, certified heartless automaton, and my terrifyingly gorgeous boss-discussing marriage terms over bitter espresso, I would've laughed until I choked.

But here I was. With yesterday's curls still fighting for life and my hangover making a rock concert in my skull. My eyes stung, my heart pounded, and Lysander? Not even a wrinkle in his suit.

"I took the liberty of having our legal team draft this," he said, sliding a thick folder toward me like it was a breakfast menu and not a legally binding contract.

The title read: "Prenuptial Agreement Between Lysander A. Eryx and Ciara Dela Cruz"

God. What was my life?

"Do you want me to read all of this now?" I asked, trying not to sound overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it.

There have been so many papers with God knows contents inside. I don't even know how I will start to absorb everything in just a blink of an eye.

"Which man with the right man would offer a woman a load of paper at this time of the day and expect her to read all of this? Oh God... this got to be torture." I groaned as I cracked my neck from the stress.

He didn't even blink. "I assume you're literate. Unless the tequila did more damage than I thought."

"Very funny," I muttered, flipping the first page and skimming through terms that might as well have been written in Latin. "So... I won't touch your billions, and you won't touch my savings account of thirty-seven dollars and twenty-five cents."

"Thirty-six," he corrected, a glint of amusement in his voice. "Your coffee this morning was billed to the office card."

I stared at him. "You checked my account?"

"I run a billion-dollar company. Due diligence is second nature."

"You're such a dreamboat."

"Are you ready to proceed?" he said crisply, ignoring my sarcasm.

I sat back, pressing my fingers to my temples. "Just... explain the big stuff to me. The rules. The don'ts. The if-you-do-this-you'll-burn-in-hell stuff."

He folded his hands on the table. "Fine. Rule one: This is a legal partnership, not a romantic one. You will not fall in love with me."

I scoffed. "Trust me, that's not a risk."

As if I would find myself falling in love with an arrogant man who is way out of my league. Plus, I do not intend to marry anyone without the presence of love. That is pure stupidity if you may ask.

His brow twitched. "Rule two: No real physical intimacy unless required for appearances. Kissing in public, hand-holding at events, but nothing behind closed doors."

"You're making it sound like I'm dying to jump you," I muttered.

He ignored that too.

"Rule three: Separate bedrooms, separate lives. We may share a house, but we're not sharing a life."

"Cold."

"Realistic."

He continued. "Rule four: The contract lasts one year. After that, we file for divorce. Quietly, cleanly. No mess."

One year.

Just one year of pretending to be the wife of a man who lived in suits and spoke in policies. One year of fake smiles at galas, fake laughter at corporate luncheons, fake everything-while trying not to lose myself in this ridiculous charade.

I swallowed thickly.

"And what do I get out of this?"

He lifted one hand, counting with precise fingers. "Full visa sponsorship. A lawyer to expedite your case. A monthly allowance for public appearances. Access to a secured residence during the contract. And immunity from company gossip."

I laughed bitterly. "You think people won't talk when I suddenly become your wife overnight?"

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes catching the sunlight like shards of steel. "They won't dare."

That shut me up.

Yeah, right. We're talking about the boss here, there ain't no way that the people will fabricate lies about him unless they all want to die. You know? He holds the power to fire someone, they won't dare go against him.

"You just have to go along with my lies and maybe we can take our time memorizing each other. Wouldn't that be great?" He whispered.

There was a pause. A thick, unbreathable kind of silence. His eyes were on me-sharp, assessing, too observant for comfort.

"You're shaking," he said.

I looked down. My fingers trembled just slightly against the paper.

"I've never done something this... illegal before."

"It's not illegal," he said. "It's strategic."

"Do you always marry your employees for strategy?"

He smirked-barely. "Only the reckless ones who needs saving."

"Fucking God complex." I mumbled in the air as I looked at this hell of a man.

A laugh escaped me, nervous and half-formed. He had a way of making you feel like the joke and the punchline all at once.

Then, without ceremony, he passed me a pen.

A sleek black Montblanc that probably cost more than my rent.

I stared at it. Then at him.

This was it.

If I signed this, I wouldn't be Ciara Dela Cruz, team manager turned secretary turned... fake wife. I'd be property. Papered. Bound.

But it was also freedom. From fear. From deportation. From the unknown.

"Any last chance to back out?" I asked.

"You already proposed to me," he replied smoothly. "I'm just being a gentleman and saying yes."

I rolled my eyes-but I signed. My hand moved before my heart could catch up. We also stamped our fingerprints making the contract more secure as our identities is already on the paper.

Ciara Dela Cruz.

The name looked oddly official next to his.

Lysander A. Eryx.

Black and white. Fire and ice. Two signatures sealing a deal that made absolutely no sense.

He took the pen back, clicked it shut, and closed the folder.

"We're done here."

I stood, suddenly aware of how much my knees wobbled. "So what now?"

He met my eyes with that terrifying calm. "Now... we tell the world we're in love."

"Get ready to be on top for a year, Ciara Eryx." He said, officially using his surname next to my first name.

Fucking declaration of marriage out of convenience.